Strength of Spirit
by Amy Rene
Summary: Beyond the familiarity of Azeroth lurks something far more sinister. Banded together with her closest friend, Ivairmov seeks to unravel the mysterious identity of her newest acquaintance and combat the evil he has unknowingly brought to the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Strength of Spirit (subject to retitling)  
**Author:** Myself, Amy Rene  
**Chapter:** 1/??  
**Rating:** Teen for battle sequences, blood and the possibility of swearing.  
**Disclaimer:** This fan fiction was written using the MMORPG World of Warcraft as its base. WoW is (c) Blizzard Entertainment, and this story was not written with the intent of monetary gain or copyright infringement. While I made a point of researching proper lore in writing this, some parts may have been altered by right of artistic license to better fit my story. All characters here are my own creations and are therefore my property.  
**Status:** Still under revision pending constructive critisisms. Currently passed its third proof-reading, which should have taken care of any wayward typos...

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In the flickering light a figure stirred. The breeze roused the trees and in turn the sunlight passed serenely over the periwinkle skin of a dozing creature, danced over shining scale armor. A lone raven took to raucous flight from the bough of a tree some feet away and the figure popped into awareness, startled by the harsh cawing and the brilliant sunlight. Discerning that no danger was present, the figure flopped back onto the grass with a soft chink of scale and a sigh. Her name was Ivairmov. 

She was lying on the shore of the Southfury River, some distance north of the Orc city of Orgrimmar, beneath the fiery boughs of Azshara's forest. Across the river canyon laid the cool, misty retreat of Ashenvale Forest, but she had forsaken it for the sloping shoreline of Azshara. So close to enemy territory, Ivairmov had sought to camp further away from the Horde's logging outfit in Ashenvale, and their outpost near to it. Having awoken alive, she figured her plan had been, at least, not the dumbest thing ever conceived.

Slender yet calloused fingers wove their way through the short tufts of grass for the leather-bound handle of her trusted accomplice, a mace of considerable magical accommodation. It's cool, hard weight in her palm was reassuring, though at present there was nothing to be reassured of. Azshara was relatively peaceful beyond her camp site. The wind in the towering treetops brought back nothing but the smell of the sea from whence it blew. The previous night it had blown from the south, and carried with it the stench of Orc fires.

Time was not to be wasted on the bank of a river, however comfortable the ground was or however tired she may be. Darnassus was still a day's journey ahead and there had been suspicious talk of the Horde's motivations in Ashenvale, where Ivairmov's hooves would carry her next. She packed camp in silence, though there was little to pack. All her possessions had been destroyed when the Exodar had crashed, as well as other things that could never be replaced…

It had been since that day, when she'd crawled from the wreckage to find her life shorn in two, which Ivairmov had decided upon her life's path. She had picked up a mace and a piece of the Light, and had never glanced back. Her journey had taken her beyond any suffering she could have imagined: it had stripped her of her notions about the world and the order of life and at the same time had reaffirmed them. By doing so, it had reaffirmed her. Armed now with a mace as strong as she was, there was very little she was not prepared to challenge. However, her present journey was much more mundane. Her satchel could not hold any more: she was on her way to the auction house.

The crossing she chose was not particularly sound. The water here was shallow but the banks were steep and unstable. Even her cloven hooves slipped on the loose, decomposing rock. Ivairmov slid down the bank until her hooves met the water with an awkward splash that soaked through the chain of her boots to the wool lining beneath. Grumbling, the paladin waded up to her waist through the river, holding her sack and mace above her head. The opposite bank proved no easier than the one she had just slid down, and the rain of dirt and rocks into the water beneath her as she climbed was testimony. Upon reaching the top she shouldered her pack and mace and set off, humming gaily but keeping a keen eye out for danger.

Two minutes into her journey the paladin pulled out her maps, scanning landmarks carefully to be sure she gave the logging camp the widest berth. It did not seem wise, right under the pug-nose of Thrall, to go flouncing through his camps. In the distance just barely audible over the low thrum of cicadas there came a sick, pulsing noise of grinding machinery and collapsing timber. Ivairmov shuddered, but this was not her battle. The druids were already in full force against this onslaught. She knew one in particular who was quite vehement on the point.

The forest, though still in a natural state of beauty wild beyond belief, bore unnatural scars. Rough tree stumps, so massive even in such decay they could have housed an inn, sat in still mourning beneath the silent, watchful shadows of their living brethren. Here and there, patches of burnt earth glowered up from their evergreen surroundings. The Orcs seemed to care little for the land they were destroying. A broken whiskey bottle lay between two clumps of bushes.

Ivairmov stuffed the maps back in the front pocket of her satchel and strode on, absently adjusting the silvery headpiece she wore. Strands of silken olive-teal hair obscured her vision and when she cleared it she threw herself into a surprised halt. An Orc peon, short and burly and broad, was standing right at the bend in the road, staring at her as if afraid to believe what he was seeing. He was carrying a blunted axe and a handful of coiled hemp rope, but he was apparently alone. He seemed keen to remedy this. For a split second he remained still, and then he threw back his head and bawled the alarm to his camp mates.

Knowing she only had seconds before his cries were answered, Ivairmov sprang. Her satchel hit the ground as her mace swung up, gripped in two gloved hands, and plummeted with all the force of a bludgeon down upon the Orc. He didn't move fast enough: the mace collided with his shoulder just as he'd raised his axe in a feeble attempt to retaliate. She called the Light to her aide, felt it course through her fingers and into her weapon, felt the hammer glow and pulse as if living. A blinding flash lit the path and a sickening thud rendered the deforester dead. But more were coming.

Another appeared, taller than his fellow and darker, but not smarter. He flung himself at her alone, grunting in foul Orcish tongues, brandishing a stout stripping axe that she parried without thinking. Her mace found his ugly, gaping face and he too crumpled. Then suddenly the trees were full of them: peons and overseers and brutally armored grunts. They watched their comrade fall in silence, and knowing his mistake they attacked all at once.

A pair of peons hit first, and with a swing timed precisely to their leap Ivairmov smote them flat to the ground. An overseer flung himself at her from behind, but in that split second she harnessed the Light again and he reeled backwards, howling as his flesh burned. Ivairmov swung hard again, bashed his knees from beneath him, and finished him with a brutal crack to the face. More came. As one fell another sent out a more urgent call, and Orc after Orc spilled through the trees as if the forest were bleeding. Fire lit the ground beneath her, sending the next wave back in howls of pain, but as they retreated another battalion surged forth. A thick, coarse constriction met her throat, and the swing she aimed at a grunt was caught mid-air in his massive hands. His face leered at her through the smoke that rose from her feet. The rope tightened on her neck. An axe bit sharply into her thigh. In the big Orc's eyes mocking triumph spread, but as soon as it had come it was replaced with fear.

He was looking beyond her now, over the head of the thrashing, suffocating Draenei. Then, like a ripple, the peons behind him began to see it too. The rope slackened, fell to her feet as her captors began to flee. Sucking in a ragged breath, Ivairmov spun around to see the forest behind her quaking. Trees swayed and groaned as an invisible force shoved through them; birds shrieked and took wing from the advancing menace that could not yet be seen. Whatever was coming, Ivairmov knew she would be no match for it. She scooped up her sack and her mace and bolted in the direction the Orcs had fled, back towards the lumber yard.

The ground shook in earnest now. Orcs were fleeing on foot, some on wolfback, and others still were bellowing at their cowardly brethren. A lone Draenei in their midst went unnoticed. She flung herself up the wooden stairs of an overseer's tower and scrambled onto the landing, barely noting that it was deserted. The tower swayed. Over the stampede of Orcs she saw the trees across the road part, and from their shadows poured a dozen infernals. Their limbs were held together by viciously glowing green magic, their round, boulder-shaped heads supporting two tiny green eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Horror came as she realized these stone beings were only the mounts, only the transportation. Their riders were hooded and masked, perched atop their infernal henchmen and armed with long, hooked polearms and swords of unrecognizable craftsmanship. They charged into the camp. The foremost rider, he alone adorned with pauldrons that spiked and peaked several feet beyond his shoulders, pulled a crossbow and fit it with a hooked arrow. He aimed, at first it seemed blindly into the crowd of Orcs, and then she saw him.

A lone human male was sprinting through the crowd, and though it afforded him protection now it was rapidly thinning, and soon his cover would be gone. He seemed to have given up all hope of magical defenses. He was running flat out, his arms over his head and his elbows plowing aside Orcs that unknowingly slowed his escape. The leading rider pulled up short, searching, but just as his aim tautened the man dove bodily into an animal hide tent. The riders spread out, now having a clear battleground, and Ivairmov ducked back behind the wooden trusses of the watch post. A rider passed directly beneath the edge of her tower's platform, and she could make out red eyes beneath his scaled helm. His cloak bore a strange, twisted symbol, demonic no doubt but in Ivairmov's mind worthless. She didn't recognize it. The infernals stomped the camp flat, their riders searching hungrily for the human Ivairmov could no longer see. She watched his tent furtively; desperate that he should not give himself away.

The troops seemed convinced that their quarry was nowhere nearby, but their leader was not. He pulled up, directly between Ivairmov's tower and the unknown man's tent, and dismounted. His feet hit the earth with a chattering of chain and plate. The forest fell silent as he began to prowl between the tents, his sword drawn. Ivairmov prayed he would be fooled. And he was. He passed so close to the tent in which the man hid that for a moment Ivairmov's heart ceased beating. Then he moved on, mounted again, and called his riders away to the east.

One did not seem to be satisfied by his leader's search. He sat in silent contemplation between the tent and the tower, though the rest of his party had moved on. She caught sight of the man's eyes, peeking through the flap of the tent, and as the rider's back was to her she tried desperately to catch the man's attention, to tell him to stay put. But he could not see her or his fear was too great, because as the creature moved nearer, sniffing the air, he burst from the tent and bolted between the infernal's legs. The rider screeched, loud and shrill, and dove from the back of its mount to give chase.

Instantaneously her decision was made. Ivairmov flung herself from the tower and landed with awkward grace in the creature's path, her satchel hitting the ground with a compact splat and her mace drawn, fusing her nerves with bravery. Or stupidity. The creature snarled, drew a sword from each hip, and flew at her. She was unprepared. Its first blow hit only her chain mail, but knocked the wind from her breast and left her reeling. Its second she parried, and with such force the thing was thrown back far enough to give her back her stance. The man stood behind her, eyes wide, frozen in place.

Her hands burned with the Light, and as the steel of her mace hummed with holy power her feet became lighter. She danced, dodged a blade and landed a blow to the creature's chest. It merely coughed. In its red eyes she saw an evil she'd never faced before, and knew she was outmatched. The man remained unmoving.

A tremendous effort bore her back out of the reach of the creature's singing blades. She parried, dodged, and was hit again, sent whirling away by the force of the blow. She was reminded by a cruel pain in her thigh that she had not yet mended from her encounter with the Orcs. It flew at her again, snarling as its blades were missed, ducked beneath, and finally met with a great swipe of her war hammer. They were backing towards the human, though no amount of forward effort on her part could dissuade the creature from drawing nearer to him. The man seemed to dissolve, and he backed against the leg of the tower and panicked there. Ivairmov felt the sting of a blade hit her arm, and blood spilled blue and hot down her glove. Her hands grew hot again, and with a blinding flash the creature howled and stepped back, unable to see. Seeking this advantage, Ivairmov aimed a blow at his helm, and it whirled off.

He was an Orc. But no Orc of his like had she ever seen before. His skin was red and tusks as long as her forearm jutted from his massive lower jaw. In her surprise she forgot to dodge, and his blade landed hard and fast upon her shoulder. She stumbled backwards, felt her hooves slip and her body roll over the top of the human, who had come forward. His blade pierced the ground inches from where she lay. She rolled, kicked to her feet, and turned in time to deflect his next attack. It landed on the unprotected chest of the human she was defending. He gasped and fell, clutching bloodied garments. Ivairmov's eyes widened. The Orc spun again, but Ivairmov bolted from his range. She recalled the Light to her hands and seared him again, blinding him. In a moment of pure desperation she pulled his sword from the earth and hurled it at him. It stuck, jutting from his shoulder and dark blood leaked onto his armor. He shrieked, again that nauseatingly shrill sound, and ran east after his party.

Ivairmov's legs shook but she dare not drop her defense until his broad form disappeared into the hazy backdrop of the forest. At last she cast her eyes to the man and felt her stomach turn hollow and sick. He was lying in his own blood, gasping for breath as his hands groped his chest, trying to staunch the flow. Her mace hit the ground after her knees did. Pale hands became stained red as, in as much desperation as the man, she attempted to address his wounds. He recoiled.

"Don't, hold still-" she began, but he seemed not to hear her. She sat back, gathered her mind together, and felt her palms flush with holy light. The man looked panicked, but he had backed himself up against the supports for the tower once more and Ivairmov pressed her hands firmly to his chest. The Light sputtered and died. Once more she tried, but the second her hands touched his bloodied chest her healing abilities seemed to flee. Her eyes found his, and found her panic reflected. A third attempt was no more successful, and he had lost a lot of blood.

Finally she clawed for her satchel and dumped it out upon the scarred, soaked earth. Silk bandages floated softly to the ground and she snatched them up and pressed them to his wounds. The fair pink cloth turned plum, but the pressure began to stem the flow of blood. The man's breathing relaxed and in turn did Ivairmov's. When at last her bandage supply had been exhausted, the man's wound had been eased. He watched her now, fascinated though she could not think by what. Her own body was bleeding; sticky blue streams had puddled in the fingers of her glove. She ripped it off, cast it aside, and watched the man draw away in revulsion.

Her head swam as she attempted to call to her the Light once more, but it merely healed her thigh, and vanished as she sought to direct it towards her arm. Feeling as though this were due to her own lack of skill, her frustration mounted, and she grabbed a bloodied piece of bandage and attempted to mop it up.

The man was sitting up now, not looking at her. His eyes swept the forest line over the trunks of felled trees. She knew what he dreaded to see, but the woods were still. Birdlife had not yet dared voice their song. Wrapping the bandage as a tourniquet, Ivairmov gathered her pack together again and pushed herself closer to the human man. She kept her voice soft, and although her Common was not as fluent as she would have liked, she hoped he would understand.

"We need to leave here. The Orcs or those…riders…will be back. Can you stand?" She watched his face for any sign of comprehension, but he continued to look white and frightened and maddeningly unmoving. "Can you stand?" She repeated, more firmly as if to inflect that it was not an idle request. Then, much to her relief, he nodded, and groped his way up the wooden support. She offered him her hand but he refused, watching her with gold-green eyes and an intense sense of confusion.

"There is a town a few hours from here that is friendly," she told him gently, shouldering her mace and rising to stand. He was shorter than she was, but she had come to expect that of humans. They were a rather small race. "We'll make for that." He nodded, but made no venture from his support. "Quickly," she amended. Slowly, he stepped out, and they made their way towards the road.

As they walked the Draenei glanced sideways to study his face. He was young, and her incomplete knowledge of humans placed him at about twenty-five years of age. His complexion was pale but his hair was dark mahogany and his jaw was shadowed the same. He wore cloth clothes, a peasant's shirt and britches and worn shoes. She guessed him as a priest or a mage, for he certainly didn't feel like a warlock, but now was not the time to ask. She kept her mace ready along the road, pointed ears tuned for the slightest disturbance beyond the trees. Her arm had begun to throb as if something large were moving painfully inside it. She could only imagine what his chest felt like. The look on his face was plain enough.

"I'm sorry I could not do more," she murmured, always one eye on the trees. "I believe this is beyond my skill to heal." He nodded, distracted and scared, and tightened his arms around his chest. Fishing for something to give him hope, she said, "But I know someone to whom this will be easy. We can send word to him at Astranaar, once we get there…"

But it seemed unlikely they ever would. The pain in her arm was becoming unbearable. Her eyes watered and blurred. She wondered, vaguely, if the blades had not been poisoned, or if the creature knew some magic she did not. Her hooves struck something hard and beneath her she could make out the wood of the Falfarren Bridge. They were closer. The man staggered and Ivairmov halted, moving to his side. He leaned on the railing and spat over the side, groaning in pain. Acting quickly, Ivairmov moved to lower him down to sit, then hopped the railing and landed neatly in shin-deep water. The summertime river was low. She leaned to fill a bear bladder with the cool water and hurried back to the man's side. He drank but only when the water was shoved under his nose. His mistrust of her was surprisingly wounding. Had she not just saved his hide from being stretched as a victory banner?

Keeping her irritation at bay and masked as simply pain, the paladin took the bladder next and attempted to soothe her aching arm. The cool rush of liquid over the gash helped, but as soon as it was gone the pain returned. The sky overhead was reddening in the west and purpling in the east. Whatever unseen harm the Orcish blade had done would be remedied, she hoped, if only they could reach Astranaar. Pulling the man to his feet, Ivairmov bid her hooves take her further down the path.

The sun sank lower, lazily drifting down to nestle at the world's belt. As the forest grew dimmer the road lamps bloomed a pale blue that threw enormous shadows beyond the trees. Ivairmov's muscles were burning. Her heart was protesting, aching in her chest. The man fared no better. She was holding him upright, dragging him along the dimly lit path towards the elven town. Astranaar lit up the distance, but seemed still so far away.

Suddenly a voice from the twilight called out, strong and untroubled, "Who's there?" and Ivairmov felt her steps quicken. Elves.

"Help us," she called back as the man sagged against her, losing his fight to remain conscious. "We've been attacked."

From the darkness ahead came two sentinels. The nearest pushed a bracing shoulder into Ivairmov's side and the other sent up a flare before rushing to scoop up the injured man. "By what?" she demanded. Ivairmov could not find the strength to answer. She clung to the sentinel's shoulders and fought to extract the name she knew would be of most help from her throat.

"Sylvestris…" she whispered. "Cloudsbreak…"


	2. Chapter 2: Sylvestris Cloudsbreak

**Title:** Strength of Spirit  
**Chapter:** 2/?? "Sylvestris Cloudsbreak"  
**Rating:** K. No language or violence in this chapter.  
**Disclaimer:** This fan fiction was written using the MMORPG World of Warcraft as its base. WoW is (c) Blizzard Entertainment, and this story was not written with the intent of monetary gain or copyright infringement. While I made a point of researching proper lore in writing this, some parts may have been altered by right of artistic license to better fit my story. All characters here are my own creations and are therefore my property. Tyrande, Illidan and Fandral Staghelm are (c) Blizzard.  
**Status:** Under construction pending crits. Passed through several proof-readings. Yadda yadda.

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Sunlight was streaming through the high, bare windows, indecently bright. The sound of song birds floated in and the smell of bread wafted from somewhere below. Ivairmov stirred, cracked an eye and registered in that same movement that the pain that had wracked her body was gone. She took a deep, calming breath. Her heart had begun to beat in excitement, but she bade it ease. The mattress beneath her was light, comfortable and warm. The sheets were silken.

Her eyes scanned the room in slits, not awake enough yet to open them fully. The room was spacious and full of light, but a shadow in the corner stirred her upright. A tall, dark figure sat on the edge of a chair, straightening as she did. Even from a distance, she could smell his woodsy scent. A shock of royal blue hair caught the light.

"Sylvestris!"

The Draenei threw herself from the bed and wrapped her arms tight around the solid, reassuring form of her closest friend. The Night Elf returned the gesture, bending so as to scoop her closer. After a moment she released him, pushed back to examine the elven being. It had been months since last they'd seen each other, but in that time he'd not changed much. His hair was still short and wild, his face still strong and cut from stone. His outfit had changed, but the smell of the leather was still the same. Ivairmov smiled.

"I didn't know if you'd come – you could have been half way across the world – I didn't know-" she spilled, but he silenced her gently.

"I was in Feathermoon," he replied softly. His voice was like the strong, even rolling of the tide. It calmed her. "I came when I heard, but I feared I was too late…" He bade her sit back upon her bed. The night's events poured back into her mind, whirring and screaming. Her heart quickened again.

"What happened? Was it poison?"

"No," he replied, and something in those blue eyes flickered uncomfortably. "It was not poison. But my remedies were effective."

"What of the man?" Her heart burned to think he may not have survived. If Sylvestris believed his arrival too late for her…

"He is fine." Her chest slackened. "He is in the next room. I believe he is awake now." The Elf watched her closely, his face unreadable. She knew what he wanted, but before he could marshal his thoughts into the questions that burned his mind she waylaid him.

"I want to see him."

"Very well." Sylvestris led her down the short, open hallway and pushed an oak door aside. The man was sitting upright against the pillows with a hot roll in one hand and a cluster of grapes in his lap. He froze mid-bite and watched them enter, but the fear in his eyes had gone.

Ivairmov sat gingerly upon the edge of his bed. Sylvestris took to the corner. The man lowered the roll, watching the Elf the longest before settling his eyes on the Draenei at his side.

"How're you feeling?" she asked softly. Her eyes studied his face, and for a long moment she suspected he was going to answer with the same silence she had been met with previously. Then, quietly, shyly, he answered: "Fine."

Ivairmov felt the tension in her bones decrease. She offered him a smile. "We were lucky," she told him. He nodded, understanding. His eyes passed to Sylvestris again.

"Who's the Elf?"

"We owe our lives to the Elf," Ivairmov told him, inclining her head to the tall man in the corner. "He's a druid. He saved us. He is my friend Sylvestris." The man nodded, still watching Sylvestris. He seemed fascinated, like a small child who had just seen something for the first time. He could not look away. Finally, he pulled his eyes to the Draenei.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Ivairmov," she said. Her own name sounded odd in Common. "I am a paladin of the Light." He nodded, though something in his eyes did not seem to click. He ventured another question, but this one took Ivairmov by surprise.

"What were those things chasing me?"

The Draenei stared at him, then turned to stare blankly at her friend behind her. The Elf came forward. "Describe them." His tone seemed to know something.

Ivairmov looked at the man, then back the Elf. "Like Orcs," she said. "But like no Orcs I've ever seen." She glanced at the man again, but he seemed unwilling to offer any of his own observations, so she continued. "They had red skin and tusks." She looked to Sylvestris and took his encouragement to continue. "They were astride infernals." At this piece of the puzzle, the Night Elf's features grew stony. A tick pulsed in his jaw, and then vanished.

"Infernals?"

"Yes." Ivairmov knew with certainty that the magically erected rock forms had been infernals. This did not please her friend. "There was symbol on their cloaks," she offered, hoping to squeeze from him a meaning for it. "I…I can't describe it…here-" she traced it on the bed sheets but Sylvestris shook his head. He handed her a sheaf of parchment and an ink quill and she drew it to the best of her admittedly shattered recollections.

The Elf offered no explanation. His lips tightened. It was times like this that Ivairmov detested the enigmatic nature of the Elves. The man too, it seemed, was growing restless.

"So what were they?" he asked, the roll in his hands having gone cold minutes ago.

"I think…" Sylvestris began, but his voice trailed off. He was still staring at the symbol she'd sketched.

"Sylvestris, what were they?"

"Orcs," he replied at length. "Orcs from Outland." Ivairmov's blood ran cold.

"From my homeland?" she demanded. "But the Orcs left there are…"

Sylvestris' pale eyes met hers. He nodded. Ivairmov felt suddenly faint. The man, however, did not seemed to have followed any of this.

"Are what?" he questioned, his eyes darting from Draenei to Night Elf. Sylvestris answered.

"Illidan's minions."

The finalization of this seemed to boil Ivairmov's blood. She rounded on the man, her tone brutally cold. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Who are you and what did Illidan's forces want with you?"

The man paled. He didn't answer. Sylvestris stepped closer to the bed, mildly threatening.

"My name is Rynn," he whispered. "But as to why they were chasing me…I don't know." He looked so sincere, but anger frothed in Ivairmov's veins.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" she snapped. She was standing again, oblivious of the fact that Sylvestris had held up a hand, wishing now for peace. "I nearly died in your defense and the best response you give me is that you don't know why Illidan's men are chasing you?"

Rynn dropped his roll, looking harassed. The small, rational part of her brain picked up the cues: he really didn't know why Orcs had been pursuing him. But the anger that bubbled in her was not so easily soothed. "Why would Illidan be bothering to chase you beyond Outland, Rynn? Speak up!"

Rynn looked helplessly at Sylvestris. "I really don't know!" he protested. Sylvestris held up his hand again, at last quelling the storm that threatened to break into the room.

"There is a chance I'm mistaken." Ivairmov scowled. When was the last time the Elf had ever admitted to that? He watched her closely, then continued. "This symbol here is not one I recognize."

"Then how do we know-" she began loudly, but the Elf cut her off.

"We don't."

"Who does, then?" This time Rynn spoke, though he watched Ivairmov warily.

Sylvestris frowned. Ivairmov opened her mouth to goad him into speaking, but once more he silenced her with his hand. "I believe the information we seek may lie with my people in Darnassus."

Ivairmov's mouth remained open. Rynn seemed, again, lost. "Darnassus?"

"We will travel there tomorrow at first light," Sylvestris continued, apparently ignoring Rynn. "After the two of you have rested." He stepped back from the bed side and motioned to the Draenei. "Come, Iva. We need to talk."

In the foyer of the Inn, Ivairmov and Sylvestris found a private corner. Elves came and went before them, stopping to vendor their wares in exchange for gold and moving on. Some requested rooms for the coming night, then left about their business in the forest. Ivairmov could not pretend to be interested in them. Her eyes remained locked on her friend.

"I believe…" he began, after watching two young women float through and disappear, "that Rynn truly does not know of his involvement in Illidan's hunt. _If_," he held up his hand for silence once more, and Ivairmov felt like biting it, "If…this truly is the work of Illidan." She swallowed her tongue and nodded. "As he was once one of my kind, my people may know his handiwork best. In the morning we shall set out. I believe Tyrande will have our answers." Though she couldn't see how the priestess would know about a demonic symbol, Ivairmov nodded again.

"Our friend, Rynn, does not seem to have his wits about him," he continued. Ivairmov nodded in earnest, rolling her eyes. Something of a smile crept into Sylvestris features, but it soon vanished. "I want you to find out what you can from him. What he knows, what he's seen, where he's been. Even if your attackers have no allegiance to Illidan, they are still not an entity Azeroth has known before." He caught her eyes; she had been looking over to a cluster of sentinels conversing just beyond the entrance to the Inn's foyer. "Will you do that for me?"

"I will." Only then did she become aware that she was starving. "After I eat, I will talk with him." Sylvestris nodded approval. She stood, smiled at him, and left to track down the baker of those warm buns.

With much more to think about now than when she had awoken, Ivairmov made a point of gathering her thoughts before attempting to worm information out of the man in the upstairs room, munching on a roll and a handful of grapes, as had been offered travelers as breakfast though it was almost noon. Sylvestris had slipped out to send a letter of their arrival to Darnassus and to request a hearing with the priestess Tyrande. She cast a glance out across the glimmering lake beyond the Inn and turned down the hallway and into Rynn's room.

He looked shocked to see her. She didn't rightly blame him, but offered no apology for her earlier outburst. She sat down on a chair and regarded him intensely for a few moments before popping a grape into her mouth and asking, "Who are you, really?"

"I don't know," he answered immediately. "My name is Rynn, but I have nothing else…"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know where I came from. I don't know what my surname is, who my parents were, why I'm here or why, most importantly, those things were chasing me." His eyes begged her to understand. She wasn't sure she did.

"You mean you can recall nothing?"

"Yes."

"Where were you before they found you, then?" There had to be something he remembered.

"I was…I don't know where." He wrung his hands. "I woke up not far from where you found me, actually. I was laying in front of…something…" He looked up at her, helplessly searching for the correct term. "Something large…like a gate but it wasn't metal. It swirled."

Ivairmov felt her chest tighten. She knew of what he spoke. The portal through which the recesses of the Emerald Dream could be found. Her fingers clenched on the grapes and made jelly. She nodded to him to continue.

"I found my feet and left. It didn't seem natural to stay near it. I'd only just lost sight of it when they appeared. I hid from them at first, but they found me and chased me. I don't know why." He stopped, looking feeble.

"Where did they come from?" she pressed.

"I don't know."

"And you don't know where you came from, either?"

"No…"

She sat back, perplexed. He watched her, and she him, until the silence stretched unbearably thin. "What training do you have, Rynn?"

"I – what?" The simple question seemed to stump him more than it should have.

"Training," Ivairmov repeated. When still he didn't comprehend, she elaborated: "I've trained as a paladin….you've trained as…?"

"Oh…" His face fell. "I don't know that, either." He looked up and caught the incredulity in her eyes. Quickly, he amended, "I mean, when I woke up, I had no idea I was supposed to…I don't know…_know_ something." He swallowed. "Nothing seemed to be amiss. I wasn't hurt or anything so I just…figured I was alright."

Ivairmov nodded, distracted by her own thoughts. Nothing she considered made any sense to her. Sylvestris, she knew, would know what to make of this. He was far more astute in that respect.

"Do you have any idea…what you might've been sent here to accomplish?" She watched him hold out his hands, palms up, in defeat. "Alright…" There seemed to be nothing he could tell her, nothing he could remember. She stood and wiped the grapes from her hands. "Thank you…"

"Wait!" She turned to watch him clamber unsteadily out of bed. For a second she could see plainly the deep, healing wound across his chest, but then he righted his shirt and it disappeared. The elves had afforded him clean bedclothes; she could see his old ones drying on a line beyond the window. He followed her out the door.

"Where are we?"

Ivairmov moved to the balcony of the upstairs. The wall opposite was nothing but a giant opening, beyond which the lake and mountains could be seen. She leaned on the stone railing and watched a pair of swallows building a nest under the eve. "We are in Astranaar, an elvish outpost in Ashenvale forest."

"I…oh." This didn't seem to enlighten him any. "Where is this Darn…Darnsasis we're going to?"

"Darnassus," Ivairmov began testily, "is off the coast to our west, and further north." She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

"It's that Elf's home?" he asked.

"It is the capital city of the Elves, yes."

"So, if he's an Elf…" He seemed to teeter on the edge of a question he knew would either embarrass him or enflame her. "What…what are you?"

Allowing herself to take that in stride, she answered: "Draenei."

Rynn nodded, though she knew he didn't understand much more than he had when he'd woken. Beneath her disbelief and confusion, she felt a soft pang of pity for him. Her own confusion must be nothing to his, and his fear was something she wouldn't contemplate. But if Sylvestris was correct and Tyrande knew of the symbol's origins, they may be closer to finding Rynn's identity.

The day passed uneventful, almost dull. Knowing they were about to embark on something more important than the usual quests for the Alliance made it difficult to mill around Astranaar peacefully. Sylvestris disappeared around two o'clock that afternoon and didn't return until supper. In his absence Ivairmov took Rynn to the lake to fish, and though he swore he'd never fished in his life he still caught more than she.

The sentinels were growing more agitated: rumors of the Orcish riders had reached them from more than a few sources now. Astranaar seemed to be the next place they might show up. Ivairmov kept Rynn in her sight until Sylvestris returned, secretive as always as to his whereabouts. He found her in the foyer as night fell.

"Where is Rynn?" he asked.

"Nicking more rolls from the baker," she informed him idly. She was sitting in a stuffed chair by the fireplace, her legs swung over the arm. The druid nodded and took a seat nearby.

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing." She watched his face tense up, smirking slightly as he made to confront her about her lack of action, but she overrode him. "He remembers nothing." Quietly, she relayed to him what Rynn had told her about waking at the portal and being chased by the riders. The news troubled Sylvestris deeply; she could read it in his face. He said nothing, but turned his attention to the fire and sat, contemplating hard, until approaching footsteps brought him home.

"Sorry to intrude on the skull session," Rynn said, plunking down on the fireplace and offering them each a roll and a roasted snapper wrapped in a leaf. "Dinner's being served and it didn't look like you'd noticed." He dug into his roll with gusto. Ivairmov peeled back the wrapper on her fish and sniffed gingerly. She'd never get used to elvish cooking.

"How long does it take to get to Darnassus?" Rynn inquired, pulling bones out of his fish. Sylvestris shook his head, silencing him. Ashenvale's adventurers were beginning to trickle in, weary from a long day and ready to sit down and eat. The sentinels were swapping shifts, and the foyer was filling up. The druid dismissed himself and wove his way through the crowd to the bar.

"Best not let others know where we are going," Ivairmov said lowly in explanation of her friend's snub. Rynn seemed to understand. He asked nothing more. The druid returned and sank to his knees between them.

"We'll be leaving before first light," he informed them in a low whisper. "We're not taking the hippogryphs. I spoke with the sentinels and they've gotten reports of travelers shot down from them. We'll be walking."

Ivairmov pulled a fish bone from between her teeth, watching her friend intensely. Rynn twitched as if he had an objection, but Sylvestris was intimidating enough not to invite it. "To bed," the Elf instructed. "It's late."

Rynn left them for the stairs and as his footsteps ascended Sylvestris leaned to Ivairmov. "I will be sleeping in the house across the way, if you need anything." He left her to wander back upstairs, catching sight of Rynn slipping into his room as she slid into her own.

The stars threw a velvety soft blanket across her bed. The night breeze, gentle and cool, floated in through the window. Clean linens had been put on the bed and, no doubt per Sylvestris' request, her soiled armor had been polished and hung by the window. She settled into the pillows and drew her legs to her chest, hugging them close. She could hear beneath her the carefree talk of the Inn's elvish patrons, thought she could even make out the heavy accent of one of her own kind…

In her dream she was standing at the bedside of a sleeping Night Elf. She had just brought him tea but that was absurd – he was in the Emerald Dream and didn't need tea. She bent to shake him, but as she began to shake he began to scream. Then, suddenly, Illidan rose from the sheets and the room was filled with thick, acrid smoke. The floor was shaking…

"Ivairmov."

The voice sounded far away, distorted. "Ivairmov, wake up. We're leaving." Someone was shaking her. She rolled over, opened her eyes and gazed blearily around. The sky beyond the window was still dark. Rynn was kneeling over her, a cup of tea in his hand. "You awake? The Elf says we're leaving in ten minutes."

"What…? Yeah. Yeah, I'm awake." The Draenei rolled stiffly out of bed. She felt odd, slightly panicky, but could not explain it. She moved past Rynn and gathered her armor to her. He stood watching, and she met his eye pointedly.

"Oh," he said, and his cheeks flushed pink. "Oh, right. Sorry," and backed out of the room. She stripped off her night clothes once the door had snapped shut and went about settling the thick sheets of mail back onto her body. The straps had been undone, and one of the fraying ones replaced. She was grateful for the repairs even as she struggled to adjust her chest piece back to its correct fit. She stooped to scoop her belongings back into her sack and shouldered her mace. A quick glance around the room told her she was packed, and she left to find Sylvestris and Rynn on the landing.

The druid had his traveling cloak on, the hood up, casting his face into shadow. Rynn looked nervous. He shifted from foot to foot, clutching a knapsack that was stuffed with what appeared to be food.

"We're not stopping," Sylvestris whispered to her as the three of them descended the stairs and slipped silently out of the Inn. "We'll eat on the way when we get hungry."

Astranaar by the misty pre-dawn light was as beautiful as she'd ever seen elvish architecture. The mossy, smooth stone walls glistened and the glowing lamp posts illuminated the flicker of moth wings beneath them. A sentinel saluted them as they passed, taking the northern bridge over the lake and into the wild.

Sylvestris seemed to have his own ideas about where they should go from here. Without speaking he led them off the beaten path and down a bank into a gulley, where they walked for some time until it leveled out into a cluster of stone ruins. They weaved through, avoiding a wolf that was sniffing the air some distance off. Ivairmov kept a close eye on the webbed tangle of trees to their left. She could sense something large moving behind it, but knew the area was spider territory and so said nothing of it. Rynn kept between her and the Elf, silent as the dawn.

Their guide took them to the base of the mountains and it was here she began to appreciate his knowledge of Ashenvale. He kept them invisible from the road and from the mountain top, winding them through thickets and trees as large as the Inn they had just vacated. The sun peeked over the distant horizon as they were scaling an embankment, from the top of which Maestra's Post could be seen. They found level ground down the other side, and set off in an eastern arc towards the sea.

"We'll travel along the beach," Sylvestris said, breaking the silence for the first time. "We will be exposed, but we will be able to see our attackers earlier than if we were to follow the road through Darkshore." Ivairmov grunted approval, stepping over a fallen tree. She trusted him in his homeland. This was, indeed, where he had grown up…thousands of years ago.

The morning woods soon became more active. In the stretch of land that sloped towards the sea they encountered wandering wolves. They seemed uninterested in the party, though Rynn upon spotting them gathered the food closer and ducked behind Sylvestris' form. The ruins of an old elvish temple began to rise out of the mist. The shore was littered with them, ghostly white and silent. She had traveled here before, but never had the ruins given her the chills as they did this morning.

Sylvestris led them up and around the ruins by means of the hill that overlooked them. From their vantage point above the rolling mist Ivairmov could see the glittering scales that belonged to the naga, the ruins' current caretakers. Rynn couldn't hold in his curiosity: he pointed to a scaled beast that had just slithered up onto a ruin to soak up the watery sunlight. "What is that thing?"

"It's a naga," Ivairmov replied. She was barely capable of fostering his incompetence this early in the morning. "Hand me a roll."

They walked in silence a while more, now making their way down the beach. Rynn had passed out the food and as they walked they ate and watched the gulls swarm a beached and bloated carcass ahead of them.

The sun continued to rise and soon the mist dissipated. The Veiled Sea remained dark and silent, as did the tree line to their right. Eyes were following them, but they were benign. The minutes stretched into an hour, and finally the wooden flight deck that belonged to the coastal town of Auberdine came into view around the dunes. Sylvestris deemed it safe to fly now. They mounted the flight deck and purchased a ride to Teldrassil, the barely-visible tree jutting up from the water miles out to sea.

Sylvestris mounted his hippogryph first and the beast kicked off immediately. Ivairmov hung back, partly because she detested flying and partly because Rynn was having trouble grasping the concept.

"Just get on," she told him baldly. She watched him grab feathers and slip back to the deck. "Just – no – for the love of the Naaru." She grabbed him by the hem of his britches and hoisted him bodily onto the back of the irritated hippogryph. "And hold on." She mounted her own and, watching with mild amusement as Rynn clung awkwardly to the beast's feathers, rose into the air after the speck that was already Sylvestris.

They landed at the tiny tree-side port known as Rut'Theran Village and dismounted. Rynn hit the deck on all fours, green in the face. Catching sight of Sylvestris' face only for a moment, Ivairmov was amused to find him smirking. However, to be kind, she mentioned that they might take the boat back when the time came. Rynn agreed.

The Night Elves' homeland, even if it wasn't consecrated with nature's blessing, was as beautiful as she remembered it. The elegant architecture rose from the lush green gardens and sparkling ponds it sat upon, glinting in the fresh late-morning air. As they passed into the hubbub of the city, Rynn's head appeared to be mounted on a swivel. He kept turning circles, craning his neck back, swearing beneath his breath and scampering to keep up with his saviors.

People began calling out to Sylvestris. Walking in his wake was awkward. He had in his lifetime thus far amassed such a reputation that his presence seemed to be the soul of any gathering. Merchants waved. Homeowners stuck their heads out their windows and greeted him warmly. The Huntress Ravenoak glanced down from her throne atop her massive black feline mount and her lips twitched into an appreciative, if reserved, smile.

Moving to stride along side her friend, Ivairmov imposed casually, "How long has it been since you've been home, Sylvestris?" She grinned when he grimaced.

"About three years," he replied under his breath, waving politely to a young human woman that was pointing him out to her companion.

"Ah, then of course we will be stopping by to see your parents," she countered, and met his returned glower with a look of airy malevolence.

"We're splitting up," he said gruffly as they neared the bridge to the warrior's terrace. "Iva, you take care of whatever you need to here. Keep the miracle child with you." His gaze fell on Rynn, who was staring slack-jawed at an annoyed looking Gnome. "I am going to seek Tyrande, and I will find you when she is ready for us." Ivairmov watched him disappear towards the looming temple in the background, then turned to Rynn.

"Stay close, "she instructed. "I need to auction a few things, then we're…never mind." The man was staring at a warlock geared to kill, and was paying her no attention. She tugged him along in her wake.

The auction house was crowded to the wall with people and their goods. Ivairmov pushed her way to the front, keeping Rynn at her side, and proceeded to set up with the auctioneer the sales of several stacks of silk cloth, a curved dagger, a satin hood, and a necklace made of glowing pearls. Before she could actively decide to stop herself, she was perusing other auctions, trying on new helms and ogling various pieces of jewelry way out of her price range. When she looked back over, Rynn had a sword the size of the World Tree in his hands and was attempting to lift it off the ground.

"Put it down, you've no business with that thing," she snapped. He set it back in its holder with a sheepish grin. They left the auction house empty handed. Ivairmov led him through the terraces, answering his endless supply of questions. By the time Sylvestris found them again, they were strolling past the tree where the Archdruid resided, Ivairmov recounting to Rynn the tale of the Great Sundering and the relationship between the Highborne and the Night Elves. When she turned to see Sylvestris, he was scowling. She quickly changed the subject.

"Will Tyrande see us?"

"Yes, and now. She is waiting." The druid led them off across the city, past the bank and the ponds and up a gently sloping bridge into the twilit depths of the Temple of the Moon.

They filed past the great fountain in the center of the temple, silent as to not disturb the meditation inside. She had never been inside the temple before. The atmosphere seemed charged with energy different than the Light, but just as holy. As a paladin, it was a welcome feeling. They found the foot of a sweeping, circular rise along the wall and climbed until it leveled into a balcony that circled the temple. Tyrande was waiting for them at the widest spot, her robes catching the reflection of the water in the fountain below.

"These are the people of whom you spoke?" she asked. Her voice was not the soft, fragile thing Ivairmov imagined of a priestess. It was hard and almost wild.

Sylvestris nodded. "This is Ivairmov, vindicator of the Draenei people." He gestured to her and Ivairmov tilted her head, unsure of a proper greeting. "And this is…Rynn…" The man needed no formal introduction. Tyrande was already watching him as if expecting him to sprout wings and fly away.

"Come," she said at last. "Some place private." She led them to an alcove and through an archway that spiraled up and out of sight. They found themselves on the roof of the temple, overlooking the whole of Darnassus. A breeze met them.

"Can you recreate for me the symbol you saw upon the creature's cloak? Can you describe to me how they appeared, exactly as you saw them?" Her eyes followed Ivairmov as she traced the symbol onto a tablet and showed the priestess. Her expression was, as so often was Sylvestris', unreadable. The story of their encounter followed, exactly as it had been relayed to Sylvestris the day before. She relayed Rynn's story as well, as he seemed too intimidated to do so himself. Still Tyrande's expression yielded no hints. He nodded at the end, giving it his affirmation.

"They are as you feared, Sylvestris Cloudsbreak," she said quietly. "They are Fel Orcs, and they were once in Illidan's command. Whose bidding they do now, however, I do not know, as I do not recognize that symbol."

Ivairmov felt her breath leave her. Sylvestris was staring at his people's most decorated leader, at a loss for words. Rynn broke the stalemate. "Then who might?"

Tyrande looked thoughtful, turning the tablet slowly between her fingers. "If all is as you have said it is," she began softly, "and the human Rynn was indeed near the Dreamer's Portal when they set upon him, I would not believe it too unlikely that they came from the portal its self." Sylvestris' dusky blue skin paled a shade. "If that is so, the symbol may have some connection or meaning within the Dream." She looked now to the druid standing two feet from her. He shook his head. He knew no more of the symbol than Rynn did. His gaze implored of her a name, and she supplied it at length. "Fandral Staghelm," she said quietly.

"Then we will seek out Fandral." Sylvestris moved towards the stairwell. "Thank you, Priestess Tyrande." The druid was half way into darkness, Ivairmov and Rynn behind him, when the priestess spoke again.

"He's not here."

Sylvestris moved back through the narrow corridor so fast he smashed his companions against the wall. He was back out in the sunlight, addressing Tyrande. "The Archdruid is not in Darnassus?" His tone implied he had never heard of such a thing. The priestess shook her head.

"He left for Stormwind City yesterday morning."


End file.
